Not Critical, Not Massive

I rode out to do December's Critical Mass ride—I wasn't on time to make it to Sunfresh for the pre-ride boozathon, but I figured I could intercept the group if I could figure out where they were heading.

The thing about a ride like critical mass, it has no set route, only tendencies. So I commenced texting friends to ask where they were when I got to Westside. The Nelson? Discovery Center? Where did I need to head to rendezvous with the group?

The weather wasn't bad on December 27th, it was actually a pretty nice night for a ride if you dressed for it. The day had reached 52ºF for a high, and even at at 8:00 p.m., it was above 40ºF. No precipitation, not windy, just a nice, cool evening. But everyone has their threshold, the point at which it quits being fun to ride, and apparently these riding conditions crossed that line for a substantial set of Massholes because the answers I got back via text where divided into two groups. One group was at the Foundry in Westport, the other was at Buzzard Beach. Both of which are scarcely over a block from where the ride starts. I'm guessing they made a loop of the Plaza and just packed it in—maybe they thought it was too cold to stand around drinking beers outside, which is a lot of what Critical Mass is about.

I was a little disappointed at the news. I could have ridden my bike up to Westport myself, I suppose, and paid bar prices for drinks. The riding part I was up for, but the people I would have seen there, a lot of them drink at Buzzard Beach almost nightly judging from Facebook, so I could pay bar prices for drinks to hang out with them anytime. I really wanted to ride my bike, I hadn't been doing nearly enough of it the past few months what with the vasectomy and open heart surgery and all that. Plus, I was thinking, two different bars in the same block, more or less. It reminded me of the Libertarian Party when I ran for Jackson County legislator on their ticket, a party which essentially had a schism resulting in one tiny group that met in a place where smoking was allowed but sold no food, and another micro-junta met at a restaurant that didn't allow smoking.

I disproved the theory, at least to my satisfaction, that it was too cold to stand around and drink outside—on my way in to the River Market, I hit Grand Slam and got a little beer, then had fun playing with my Nikon on the tripod. It didn't really feel like the last Friday of the month, though.